


regresar

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:07:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5494928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you go everywhere in the world, except where he is. <br/>(Or, Stevie's managing Liverpool, and Xabi's not his assistant.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	regresar

 

 

 

1.

You phone Nagore and the divorce is surprisingly easy. She gets the bigger share of money, because she gets the kids. You get the house in Madrid. She gets the house in Munich. You sell the rest because there's no real point in keeping them, then you buy a ticket.

“Xabi,” she says, fondly, hand on your cheek when she comes to see you off at the airport. You still loved her, and knew the affection was returned. Loving someone, as it turned out, was not the same as wanting to spend the rest of your life with them. So trite, but you secretly like the neatness, how things fell together with sayings, proving them common for a reason.

“How is Jon?” Jon wasn't handling the divorce well. He was only 16; you are not surprised.

Nagore makes a face, straightening the lapels of your coat. “He'll come around.”

She looks up into your eyes, expression unreadable. You clutch your ticket harder, suddenly scared that you won't be able to board the flight. If she asks you will follow her home.

“Xabi,” she says again, then stops as if to consider. “When will you stop running?”

You breathe in, sharp.

Then you look away and laugh, so she joins in, agreeably, the farce that you have both made to last for years, and then you kiss her- not on her mouth, so there was a hesitation- but on her forehead, between her perfect brows. Then you walk through the gates, not looking back.

 

You've been in too many airports over the years, usually in a horde of your teammates, lounging in a first class waiting room. The big airports of the world are all familiar, Heathrow with the low ceilings and awful lighting, Munich's tessellating marble floors, Madrid's glass and shine.

But you always liked looking up at the boarding gates on the television screens, the destinations- Kuala Lampur, Sydney, Beijing, New York, Istanbul- neatly arranged next to each other, belying their distances apart.

You stand there for a bit, looking. There is a plane going to Liverpool, and you entertain, idly, the fantasy of swapping planes to get on that one instead.

But you don't, because after all, no matter what false closeness was conjured by the signs, there was so much distance between you and Liverpool. Not the kind to be vanquished by a few hours cooped up in a jet plane.

 

2.

Tokyo is the sort of busy, secretive city you love, a blur of neon signs at night and tall buildings spearing the smoggy pale blue skies at day. The sushi is predictably great, although you've been told there are better places, in the islands further south. Nagore gets a picture of Sashimi, and replies with a sad face, _Enjoy it for me._ You amble around the touristy spots in sunglasses and a map, a tall ginger Spaniard swallowed up in the throngs of foreigners.

The street outside your hotel is lined with cherry trees. There were no blossoms yet, so you wonder, idly, if it was worth renting a flat, just to see them. You have, after all, nothing to do with the rest of your life. The thought doesn't scare you, as it does so many footballers. The post- retirement life, stretching beyond the predictable daily routines of professional football, yawning like a gaping pit filled with emptiness and melancholy; an old man with aching bones sitting around on couches re-watching past games with blank eyes, perhaps doing a stint for BT or Sky, maybe going the hard way and earning coaching badges, like- Steven- had done.

None of those routes interest you. Football was a job, a fun job, while it lasted. And now the last threads were cut, so you think, _it was good, everyone, adios._ Or as the locals say, _Sayonara._

 

 

 

3.

You don't call Steven till your second week in Japan, when the roads have almost become familiar and the food no longer quite so exciting. Now the look of raw fish and the slick slide of it down your throat makes you feel slightly nauseated, so you've been ruefully looking for Spanish restaurants. There's a passable place down town, but it's still a far call from the real thing. The strangeness gets to you, as does your spartan hotel room, and picking up the phone, instead of calling Nagore, you dial his number.

“Xabi?”

You marvel that two syllables could sound so alien and yet so familiar in his voice. He's guarded and a little uncomfortable, you can tell. You haven't called him since letting him down gently 4 months ago, refusing the job he'd offered you and fully expected you to accept.   
“You have Carra, no?” you'd said, reasonably.

“Yes- but. I thought I'd ask you. Do you really not want more time to think it through?” Steven never begged for things, but he comes so close sometimes you would break just to stop him from having to. If you could break, that is. You couldn't be his assistant manager, and you tell him so.

And then silence, except for a few stilted text messages, and you watch Liverpool's first match with him in charge- they win 1-0 against Crystal Palace, a start as happy as any, and it makes you smile- and texts him _Congratulations._ After that, you haven't talked at all.

But in Tokyo, with the invisible cherry blossoms and the quiet mornings where you lie awake, wondering what you were doing here, it is strangely easy to ask after him and after Liverpool, and he opens up exactly like before.

 

 

4.

You leave Tokyo behind when it starts to get colder. You bring it up to Nagore on the phone and she asks, “Where to now?” And you think, there's only one place that you want to go, and there's only one place you don't want to go, and they are the same place. So the whole world is your oyster, barring that one enigma. You book a flight to Turkey.

 

 

 

5.

You slam awake in the middle of the night in Istanbul, curled into the fetal position. Jet lag, you tell yourself firmly, and then the dream comes rushing back like dark water, and you smile at yourself, faint. You were taking the penalty again, and this time you missed, and the ball goes ricocheting off your foot an inch past the top of the post. It soars away in the night, taking with it all the life you have known, carving out a separate trajectory in history.

It had felt so real, the crushing despair. You wonder, idly, if it was because you felt all that in the heartbeat between the initial penalty being saved and then scoring the rebound. You had many, many nightmares after that night, except they weren't nightmares when you woke up. You laugh in relief every time it happens, because you anticipate the ending even as your eyes opened, drenched in sweat and heart pounding out of your chest. The twist in the story. _Surprise! Happily Ever After!_

But now, conversely, you are not so sure. You want to phone him, suddenly, ask him to recall the details of that summer night with you, because you haven't seen it in its entirety for years. You dial his number before you can change your mind.

“Xabi?”

“Hello, Stevie. Did I wake you up?”

“No, no. I was just looking at the squad setup for tomorrow. What's wrong?” he still sounds uncomfortable, stilted, the fumbling affection he has underlining his words making your heart ache.

“I- ah, I had a dream. About Istanbul? It is because I'm here, right in the city. It brings back memories,” you say, self conscious now, aware of how it sounds. The old man chasing after past glories, things you promised yourself you would never do.

“You're in Istanbul! How is it? I haven't been in years.”

“The same. I'm visiting the blue mosque tomorrow. We never did, the first time, remember? It was going to be a consolation for losing.”

Talking with Steven was easy, and you settle back against the headboard, turning the lamps down low and warm, phone held close to your ear with your eyes closed, pretending he was right there with you. The conversation drifts, to Liverpool's position in the league, Steven rambling about the match against City tomorrow, the dinner you had, until Steven says, casual:

“What was the dream about?”

You sigh and tell him, self deprecating and trying to distance yourself from the absurd drama of it all. He's quiet afterwards, and you hadn't noticed, but your breathing had synched up together. You just breathe for a while, counting your own heartbeat.

“Want me to check? Right now?” he says, smile in his voice.

“Yes.”

“I'll just drive up to Anfield then. Break in and get the trophy. I'll mail it to you.”

“Go on, Stevie.”

He laughs, and you're smiling too, miles away where he can't see you, comforted by his voice on the line.

“Go back to bed, Alonso. Stop being daft. We won.”

“I know,” you tell him, quietly, because you do. That wasn't what you feared. _Surprise! Happily ever after!_

“We were so happy,” he says quietly, wistful, and you make a noise of agreement, though you weren't thinking of Istanbul anymore, even as it runs like gold thread through all your memories.

 

 

 

6.

The blue mosque is every bit as impressive as the postcards and pictures suggest. So much so it takes your breath away briefly, the monolithic silent grandeur of the domes and turrets outlined against the sky. Come dinnertime you duck into a tiny restaurant with an ancient panasonic tv mounted on a ledge high up on the wall, football on with turkish commentary. You persuade the owner- small, genial, towel thrown over one shoulder- to change it to a channel showing the premier league, hoping they would play the Liverpool match.

They were twenty minutes into the second half, and 2 goals up. The rest of the match was tough, especially when City pulled one back, the back four in red scrambling to clear every attempt. But in the end, Liverpool hang on to the slim margin, and the television shows a picture of Steven, suited up, shaking hands with the opposition manager.

You stare, the wavering staticky image of that familiar face, still sporting the exact same haircut, more lines on that small square forehead, heavy wrinkles around his eyes. He's smiling as he embraces the captain, and the sound isn't on but you know they will be singing in Anfield. And in that moment, somehow, you feel so close to Liverpool, the distance between you extinguished. So close to the man still leading them to victory.

You want to text him, but there are no words for the fumbling vastness of what you feel, what you discovered, so you settle for finishing the rest of your dinner.

He texts you first.

_You watched?_

_Just the last twenty five. Congratulations, Stevie._

 

 

7.

You use to wonder, playing on the beaches of your hometown, lobbing the ball high overhead, Mikel frowning half amused at you- You use to wonder: What is the end of your story? What will you become?

You find that-everything becomes. You look at this city, red tinted no matter how much it strains and tries to escape that night. The Liverpool night. Steeped in red from the libation of your blood- his blood- from almost one a half decades ago, _We have to win it for them._ The people singing you out of despair. You breath in, looking to the skyline, wondering if you could catch a glimpse of the Ataturk, but only seeing the clay roofs and cobbled streets– _Hello hello! Here we go!-_

And beyond that, the Bosphorus flowing out to sea.

 

 

8.

You leave Istanbul, thinking you understand some things better. But in truth you don't, and there is just this one, small, fact, clenched in your hand like a child's prize of a shell or a funny shaped rock. You missed him more than you knew.

 

 

 

9.

You spend Christmas and New Year's in Munich with your children, a subdued quiet Christmas dinner with Jon stabbing his plate grimly before you. New Year's eve better as you take them out to watch the fireworks, Nagore phoning at the right moment, so much so it almost seems like you were a family again.

It doesn't last, though you keep Emma's face under the fireworks in the back pockets of your memory, held close to your heart. Unsure of what it entails, when faced with the empty echoing waiting halls of foreign airports in the early hours of the morning, but still it warms you, a tiny flickering candle warmth. You leave them after, regretfully buying a ticket to Dubai to escape the chill.

You phone him again as you touch down, the hum of air conditioning loud in the car and silent in the hotel.

“Why Dubai?” It was easy to see why, since it's January and you're stretched out on a beach chair, the languid waves lapping at the man made shoreline. The water is heart stoppingly blue, matched by the sky.

“Alex loved it.” You can see him scratching the back of his head ruefully, maybe absentmindedly running the back of his pencil down a list of names, thinking already of next week's matches.

“Ah. You should come back when you can, it's very warm.” You're fumbling, again, reaching for words to say. You wonder if he could tell.

“Oh yeah? Where are you staying?” he says, and you answer. The conversation is easy, you scooping up sand and letting it trickle through the spaces between your fingers. It's cool and warm at the same time, a strange sensation, the condensation on your drink running down and puddling on the table, dripping on your arm when you pick it up. And you think, suddenly, that you've never talked so much, so easily, not since a long long time ago. How strange, that after everything you're at the beginning again.

 

 

10.

You call him after Liverpool fails to win for the fifth time in a row, position sliding down the table. The title talks wind down. No one expects Steven Gerrard to win the league his first time managing Liverpool, except everyone does. You don't expect him to pick up, knowing that after a loss he was reticent and distracted, wanting to keep a distance between himself and anything football related.

But he does.

“Xabs?”

“Stevie. Are you drunk?”

He laughs. “Not really. Just got back from pub with Carra.”

The conversation slides around after that and you both laugh more than usual. You skirt around football till almost an hour later. You haven't been drinking but you're almost hazy with tiredness, the whole world blurry and tunneled down to a warm clear center.

“Remember Benfica?” you say, softly.

A pause. Surprised chuckle. “2006 Benfica? Crashing out in the knockout stages Benfica? Yeah.”  
You close your eyes to let the memories sift out easier. Heavy weight of his arm across your shoulders. How you looked to the stands with your heart breaking, wanting so much and not getting it, not this time. Sweat sticking your shirt to his, the two of you with your heads leaned together like boys in the back of a classroom, intimately conspiratorial. And the long, long walk off the pitch, the silence between you, the way you held each other up, bone weary. _Walk on_.

“Remember what you said, Stevie?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me again.”

“You know already,” he sounds fond, exhausted, here at the end of yet another dream unrealized.

“But you should tell me, just to make sure.”

He laughs, more to oblige you than anything else, but you don't speak. A pause, a long sigh. Then he does, and you do remember. Every word.

 

 

 

11.

Liverpool is like- Liverpool is like. Liverpool is a city and a football club. Liverpool is where you left behind the boy who wanted too much, the city your son was born in, a red song and red banners. Liverpool is rusted liverbirds on rooftops, the center of the world in some dreams you don't dream anymore, pulsing darkly. It's cold mornings at Melwood and the clattering heater in your apartment, and Anfield at night with the floodlights on. Liverpool is not like- Liverpool only _is_. And so too is Steven Gerrard, not a symbol or a talisman or the accolades you want to give him- _My hero. My mate-_ there he is, at the center of all your dreams and journeys, unmoving where the lines intersect. A destination.

 

The plane lands with a judder and you're jolted from your sleep. The captain's voice on the intercoms, and you blink, struggling to come awake, disoriented. You look out of the window at another foreign city.

 

 

12.

You're tired of the sea so you spend some time inland, ambling over the old Roman ruins in Amman, hiring a guide to drive you around and visit all the places that tourists often go to, half hearted. You want to see the world and so you will.

Steven phones almost twice a week, even though you worry that you'll both run out of things to say. At first- before he kissed you, before you kissed him back- it was easy to talk, even with your incompetent english, getting to know each other and what you liked, and what he liked, and all the movies you wanted him to watch and all the stories he had, growing up in Liverpool. Then it was easier not to talk at all, quick smiles pressed against his neck, late night apologetic texts to Nagore, him to Alex– _Out drinking with the lads will be late don't wait up -_ his face in the dim light from the windows, the way he said your name- _Xabi.-_ when he came, quiet, as if you've pulled it out of him like a secret.

 

 

“Xabi?” he says. You close your eyes, willing him not to say it. “Come back.”

You want to tell him what he wants to hear. _I'll come back, I'll never leave again, Liverpool is home._ You don't know which of those three things is true, like a child's game or an icebreaker: I will say three things and one of them will be a lie, guess which?

“Come home?” you say, not quite a question, and he laughs instead of replying, so happy it bewilders you. You smile, unable to help yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

13.

You fly back to the Basque country in the beginning of spring, and spend a few weeks in San Sebastian. Everything windblown and greenish, the beaches smaller than you remember, even though nothing very much had changed. You phone up Mikel just for old time's sake, and sit on the sand- so different from Dubai's artificial bone white powder, they're grainy between your toes and gets stuck in the rolled up cuffs of your jeans instead of sliding away loose when you stand- watching the flat water shift about.

You call Steven, and he talks about match statistics and the current squad, and everything in this small town feels like a construction made out of flimsy cardboard. Liverpool in the FA cup final against Southampton. Liverpool scrambling for fourth as City and Chelsea battled it out for the title. Facts taking shape.

“Come for the cup final?” Stevie says, off hand. You laugh, his attempts transparent now. You look out at the town, the boys passing a football to each other on the streets, the glazed blue color of the sky. You want to say yes. You want the both of you to care a little less, so that none of this would matter so much. You want so many things, and at the end of it, if you could choose just one thing to come true- _Oh it's gone in! Alonso's scored the penalty-_

“Save me a ticket, Stevie.”

 

 

 

14.

You see him before he sees you. He's leaning on the open car door, window rolled down. It's a brisk day for spring, rare sunlight splashing on the bricks, wind skipping over his hair. He's waving at a small child getting tugged along by the parents.

He looks so very like himself, twenty years ago, that you stop dead still on the sidewalk, trying to remember how to breath. You can remember him at twenty-three, his unweathered face ghosted over his present one, but you can't remember how to make your lungs expand, suddenly.

The wind is blowing stronger, tossing the new leaves on the trees around like a ship in a storm. They cling on, fierce, as though there was no possibility of relinquishing their hold. Everywhere around you rises a crescendo of sound from the rustling leaves, narrowed down to him at the center of everything, turning towards you. His slow smile a break in the stillness.

There's nothing else left but to keep moving towards him. You count your steps. One, three, five, seven.

“Xabi,” he says. You look up at him.

“Stevie,” you say, gently mocking, and he smiles even wider. You take a deep breath, feeling for all the world like a man jumping off a high cliff.

You lean in, and he meets you halfway.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> every few months i write gerlonso like a defense mechanism. gd. 
> 
> thanks for reading <3


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